


Stories By The Fireside

by pimpbuttons



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Grief, M/M, Relationships are hinted at
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:34:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpbuttons/pseuds/pimpbuttons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gimli finally decides to open up to Legolas, about grief, mourning, and the loss of his closest cousins.<br/>- By Buttons</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories By The Fireside

Legolas did not partake of pipe. This truth had taken some time for Gimli to come to terms with, but he had learned to not smoke too near to the elf when he enjoyed his own pipe. Their balance worked and he had little want to wreck so delicate a thing. Giving up smoking in certain place, at certain times, proved to be no great hardship.

Legolas did not begrudge him his pipe during this tale. He could see that the elf respected the decades' old grief in his eyes, the shake in his hands as he packed the pipe weed and lit it with a flick of a twig from the dwindling fire. Smoke drifted up, breezing into the trees. He could see Legolas swallow his complaints that the trees would not like the smoke all that much either – he appreciated it.

Gimli, son of Gloin, child of the line of Durin, had known his share of grief, having lost family and friend alike to many things. Sickness, famine, old age, battle... Many things could claim the heartfire of a dwarf. But few losses hurt so much as when the heartfires of his dearest cousins had gone out. It came to him with difficulty, recalling their faces. Their smiles. Their infectious laughter and good-fun pranks. He closed his eyes. He was grateful, that he had not been there, to see their heartfires go out.

“Gandalf calls our hobbits by their names,” said Legolas, quietly, breaking the tense silence between them, trying to encourage Gimli into speaking. Gimli puffed, smothering a laugh into a rumbled chuckle.

“He does, with good reason. There are similarities,” he said, then, eyes never leaving the fire. “Fili and Kili, the sons of Dis, Heirs to the Line of Durin, sister-sons to Thorin... I could go on. Many accolades are given to their names, in honor of their fight and sacrifice. They were... just children, really. Even in age, they near-match our Merry and our Pippin. Barely of-age when they left to reclaim Erebor. I was not allowed. I was too young. My father forbade me. Then got Thorin himself to forbid me, too, just to make sure I would listen.”

He chuckled, remembering the tantrum he had thrown. How childish it seemed, now that he was older. He looked at Legolas, briefly. “They were vibrant, my cousins. We were raised like brothers, playing together. They were sun and shadow and I was the fire of the earth between them, or so I fancied myself. I wanted the bond they had together... There was something about them. Something more than themselves, something just...” Even after decades since their loss, he still had no words for them. He exhaled shakily, fingers trembling as he held his pipe. 

“When we heard that Erebor had been reclaimed, I could see them. I could see them, running in the halls that we had been told stories of since we were able to understand the words, climbing on the throne in that way of theirs. Thorin hadn't raised them as princes. He had raised them as his nephews. Ceremony, royalty, etiquette... None of that mattered. They were happy to be dwarrows of free skies and wide caverns and lenient law. Thorin encouraged it. I thrived in their energy. So, we heard, and I could see them, learning the home they had never seen, I had never seen. I begged my mother to be one of the first to go. It's easy to remember that day. She hadn't even finished reading the letter from my father, and I was tugging at her skirts. Asking to leave. Asking to run the halls and mines with Fili and Kili. And she began to sing a grieving song.”

Gimli closed his eyes, throat feeling thick and tight. He swallowed, trying to wet it, trying to find the next words he needed to use. Trying to tell Legolas of the light that had gone out of the world, when his cousins had died, dirty and young and afraid, on the battlefield around the Lonely Mountain. He tried to tell that he was haunted by the sight of them on their burial slab, young and pale and curled together in a way that was not the dwarven tradition and yet seemed right. He could still see the braid between them, a herringbone of locks from both of them, woven and tied with a delicate chain of mithril... He had been loud in his grief, tearing out what few whiskers he had in mourning, in their honor. He bled for them, as they had bled their heartfire out for them all.

Legolas watched him draw a heady amount of smoke from his pipe, not speaking. He exhaled slowly, then tried again with words, not sure of how to put into words...

“The stars have been dimmer without them.”


End file.
